The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Read Online Free PDF Page A

gang might be there. I can’t chance it.’
    â€˜But you said that…’
    â€˜I will make it up to you, lass, I promise. You see, I did say to Maggie that I would take her to the harbour a while…’ He reaches out and places one arm on Agnes’s shoulder in consolation.
    Agnes pushes him away. ‘Don’t bother.’
    Maggie stretches a grin as Agnes marches away. ‘I’ll have to finish my laundry first.’
    â€˜I will wait for you.’
    As they stroll towards the harbour Maggie allows his free hand to clasp hers and his fingers link with her own. As they reach the seafront a voice shouts out, that of a fisherman calling out to another or to some companion working upon the silted quay, and the sound flickers and ripples, blown away by the wind. Iron rings on iron, hammers striking nails as boatmen make repairs. The sea whispers on the ebb-tide sand and all above them, always clearly audible are the mewing cries of seagulls. This is Maggie’s favourite place, it is here that she loves to watch the mariners at work, smoking their pipes as they empty gear from their boats to unload their haul. Some of them sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by their baskets, creels, and skulls. Others redd their nets to discard unused bait, and many of them curse as they free their nets of seaweed. It’s here that Maggie feels at peace, especially when she looks out to sea.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ he asks.
    â€˜There is nothing the matter.’
    â€˜Come here,’ he says and pulls her tight into his arms. For what seems like eternity her breath mingles with his own, until at last she manages to cry out, ‘Get rid of Agnes.’

CHAPTER THREE
SKULLS, MURLINS AND CREELS
    Up and down, Maggie paces the cottage, from one wall to the next, ears peeled for the sound of heavy footsteps. Maggie knows he will come. For a moment she steps outside, her hair soft-lifted by a gentle breeze. In the distance she hears lambs bleat and the rustle of leaves in the trees. She lingers for a moment, hoping to see his large frame appear along the brae, a pleasant smile upon his handsome face, but it is not so. She enters the cottage and closes the door.
    â€˜He is not here yet,’ she complains.
    â€˜He will be,’ James nods.
    â€˜How do I look, James?’ Maggie twirls around so that her skirts billow out into the shape of a circle.
    â€˜You look bonny, Maggie. You always do, but you are the vainest girl in Scotland. And quit preening and fussing with your hair, and shouldn’t it be hidden under a fillet or a cap?’
    â€˜I’ll do as I please. No one tells me what to do, least of all you.’
    James arches back his neck, and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re asking for trouble. You’re not a bairn anymore, Maggie.’
    â€˜All right, all right, I’ll put a cap on.’
    A knock on the door interrupts them. And this sets Maggie off in a wild panic, running from one corner of the room to the next in search of her cap. After a while she finds it and with much reluctance places it upon her head.
    â€˜James, open the door will you?’
    â€˜Get it yourself. Why should I help you? No one helps me. All day long I’ve been working the run-rigs all on my own. I was supposed to be at the master weaver’s ages ago. My back’s gone and I’ve cut my hand. So open it yourself.’
    â€˜Please, James,’ Maggie begs. But he shakes his head and pushes her away, nursing his injured hand.
    â€˜Fool,’ she stamps her feet and crosses the room.
    A series of knocks causes the door to rumble and shake. Maggie takes a deep breath and places her hand on the door handle. As the doors swings opens it creaks like a squeaky wheel, meanwhile a suckling pig takes the opportunity to escape into the kale yard, nearly tripping Patrick in the process.
    â€˜Get it,’ shouts Maggie. ‘The little swine will